


A Boy, his Wolf, and The Hornet that Wanted to Sting Them Both

by sincerelymendacious



Category: Dark Souls (Video Games)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Gough thinks they're all crazy kids, Hair-brushing, Humor, Ornstein shakes his head a lot, artorias causes problems on accident, artorias is very sweet, but is amused all the same, but super soft for artorias, but very hard-headed, ciaran is MEAN, ciaran maybe gets a little jealous, just a little, not so much for his rotten pet, spoiling pets, tw: sick animals
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-30
Updated: 2020-08-26
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:00:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25617013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sincerelymendacious/pseuds/sincerelymendacious
Summary: Lord's Blade Ciaran had not thought much of the sick little wolf-pup that her dear friend Artorias had snuck into the castle. Little did she know that ill beast would soon become the biggest thorn to have ever pierced her side.
Relationships: Artorias the Abysswalker & Great Grey Wolf Sif, Artorias the Abysswalker/Lord's Blade Ciaran, The Nameless King/Dragon Slayer Ornstein
Comments: 26
Kudos: 52





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is fic is written in a different way that how I would normally write, in that I jump from the perspective of multiple characters, rather than just on one. Idk I wanted to do something different I guess. Anyway, the main character of the fic is Ciaran, so most of the time, the viewpoint will hers.

When Artorias had returned to Anor Londo carrying something bundled up in his cobalt blue cape, nobody- not the servants, not the guards, not the priests, not the chamberlain, or even his fellow knights- attempted to question him on it. By now the Wolf Knight had garnered a reputation for being an oddball, and most assumed that the cape contained a plant or fungi that he’d taken an interest to while out on his travels. The stains were attributed to mud seeping through the fabric, and Artorias had scurried away to his quarters too quickly for anyone to get a good look at what he held. The reason for his urgency was impossible to discern, for with his head bowed and face obscured by helm and hood, there was no way to tell what his mood was. 

That was not to say that there was a complete lack of interest in whatever it was Artorias had brought with him from the wilds. Intrigued parties would whisper their speculations behind the knight’s back as he fled to his rooms. “Thought I smelled something off,” said one servant to another, wrinkling her nose at Artorias’ retreating back. “He’d better not be trying to grow those awful flowers again.”

Her companion nodded in agreement. “The Steward will have his head for certain if he is, greatsword or no.” 

A group of visiting Way of White clerics asked the Bishop Havel about the Knight’s strange behavior, perturbed by his hunched posture and muttered response to their greeting. 

“Oh, that is only the Knight Artorias,” Havel replied. The clerics could not see the smile that had come to the Bishop’s face, hidden as it was by his heavy rock helm, but they could hear the respect and fondness in his tone. “He must have just returned from his journey out into the mountains.” Noticing the group’s concern, the Bishop was quick to reassure them of Artorias’ good character. “No need to worry about it. Sir Artorias holds himself to the highest standards of conduct. He is only...a little eccentric.” The clerics’ worries were somewhat assuaged by the Bishop’s vouch, but their confusion lingered for a while as they continued on their business. 

Sir Aethel, a Silver Knight assigned to guard the hallway Artorias’ quarters were located on, eagerly reported the glimpse he’d had of the Wolf Knight to his fellows once his meal break came. “And whatever it was,” he said, lowering his voice ominously, “it was moving.” 

“Moving?” Sir Voran frowned. “By the Gods, surely he would not have brought an animal back with him. I would think that even he would know better.” 

“Might not be an animal,” piped up Sir Hereward. “Could be one of them, what’re they called…” He tapped the table with the point of his dagger as he searched for the word he was looking for. “You know, one of those root things that look like a baby.” 

“A mandrake?” Sir Voran supplied.

“Yes, that’s the thing!” 

“I should hope not,” Sir Aethel said. “They are said to shriek horribly at night, and Ward’s lady hardly needs the competition.”

“Rotten knave!” Sir Hereward fired back as he launched a piece of ham at his companion.

The three persons closest to Sir Artorias had not witnessed his hasty retreat into his quarters, occupied as they were with their own daily business. Indeed, they would only learn of their friend’s return second-hand, through the extensive gossip grapevine that threaded its way throughout the castle. The news inspired a range of different emotions in these three persons, and each intended to deal with the matter in their own separate way. 

Sir Gough, leader of the Great Archers and most skilled carver in all of Lordran, had the simplest approach, in that he would not approach it all. This was not due to any sort of apathy or laziness on the Giant’s part. He merely figured that Artorias was not yet ready to speak to anybody on this issue, given his poorly executed attempt at secrecy, and was quite content to wait for his friend to come to him in his own time, should he desire to do so. Patience was a necessary quality in a Giant whose hobby involved the carving of intricate designs into wood with tools not meant to be handled by fingers as large as his own. If he could craft a finely-detailed hawk no bigger than the average arrowhead, then he could respect Artorias’s privacy enough to put aside his curiosity. He certainly hoped that Artorias would visit him soon-his company had been missed during the fortnight he’d spent away- but rushing people to suit his own desires was not the way the Hawkeye operated. Things often turned out for the best when they were allowed to happen in their own time;this the Giant had learned over the course of his very long life.

Sir Ornstein, Captain of the Silver Knights and most renowned Dragonslayer among the Four Knights of Gwyn, was considerably more concerned. Several versions of the story regarding Artorias and his mystery bundle had reached his ears, the most ridiculous of them claiming that he had snuck a mandrake into the castle. An outlandish tale, as such rumors often are, but Ornstein had still felt a premonition of mischief when he had heard it. He sensed that his friend was about to start yet another ‘personal project’, which was likely to get him into trouble, just as the previous ones had. Although undertaken with nothing but the best intentions, these projects had earned Artorias the ire of the castle steward, the chamberlain, the stable master, and the head chef, and Ornstein wanted to avoid adding more persons to that list, if it was in his power to do so. 

And so, Ornstein sought the Wolf Knight out the very instant his duties were completed, not even bothering to change out of his heavy golden armor. Artorias’ quarters were not located on the same wing of the castle that his own were. They were in a more secluded, if less luxurious hallway on the third floor, this at the more solitary Knight’s request. Ornstein came to a stop before the door, inhaling sharply through his nose before knocking on it.  _ It does not smell of a rotting carcass,  _ he thought with no small amount of relief. If Artorias had been making a second attempt at cultivating those disgusting flowers, he would have charged right in there and pulled them all out by the roots himself- their medicinal properties could not possibly be worth their nauseating stench!

Beyond the door, the shuffling of items and a low mutter was heard. Exact words could not be identified, but the soft tone of comfort could. Certainly not the way one would speak to a mere object.  _ It may still be some odd little plant he has picked up. Artorias does have a tendency to afford affection towards non-sentient beings.  _ The thought did not inspire the confidence in Artorias’ better sense that Ornstein had hoped for, and he braced himself for the nonsense that was sure to come as he rapped upon the door with his fist. 

Silence greeted his knock. Ornstein could very easily envision his friend going completely still, wondering who it was at his door and what their intentions were. “Sir Artorias? Are you within?” he asked, not wanting to cause him any undue stress. “I had heard of your return and wished to know if you were well.”

A person more accustomed to deceit would have remained quiet, in the hopes that Ornstein would assume that the room was empty and depart. Such a farce would not have naturally occurred to Artorias, and so he promptly answered with “yes, Sir Ornstein, I am back, and, uh, very well! There is nothing at all here that you need concern yourself with!” 

The hasty, awkward manner in which Artorias spoke led the Dragonslayer to believe just the opposite. “Would you mind opening this door?” he inquired politely, “I would like very much to see you, for you have been away for some time. I’ve put all my other plans for tonight on hold so that we could have time to talk of your travels.”

A pause. And then, “Ah, I’m afraid I cannot do that. I’m...not decent.” 

“Put some clothes on then.” 

“I, uh, cannot. My good leggings were damaged, and I was in the middle of repairing them when you knocked.” The words spilled out quickly, as though they were passing through his lips with little input from his mind. “That is why I went straight to my quarters without saying hello to anyone. That and no other reason.” 

The laugh that bubbled up in Ornstein’s throat was very difficult to swallow down. The excuse was truly absurd- did Artorias truly expect him to believe that he only had a single pair of leggings? Still, Ornstein did not press the issue; he would not force the man to open the door to his own living space if he did not want to. “We can speak of your trip some other time then, when you are fully clothed,” Ornstein said, keeping his tone light. “I shall leave you to your...sewing in just a moment. There is an issue I hope you will be able to clear up for me.” 

“What issue would that be?” Artorias asked, trying to affect an air of innocence and failing miserably. 

“There have been rumors,” Ornstein began casually, as though he already believed them absurd and was only asking about them as a formality, “that you have brought something back with you.”

“Well yes!” Artorias blurted out. “I have picked up a few things, as I usually do!” 

“Of course, that is not so odd,” Ornstein continued. “It is only that some of the knights are claiming that one of the things you brought back moved as though it lived.” 

“Uh…” 

“They are saying that you were walking the halls with a mandrake of all things wrapped in your cloak.” Ornstein chuckled like he thought the notion ridiculous. “But surely there is no truth to that! These knights must simply be getting stir-crazy, given the relative peace we have been enjoying as of late!” 

Artorias’ responding laughter held a note of relief in it. One would not think that such a soft, pure sound could come from a warrior who had endured as much hardship as he had, but Artorias had somehow managed to retain some of his youthful innocence in spite of all he’d seen and done. “Why, of course it isn’t a mandrake,” Artorias replied. Footsteps accompanied the denial-he must be walking closer to the door. “Mandrakes only grow in the southern regions, along the rocky coastlines, whereas I had ventured north, into the mountains.” 

A smile came to Ornstein’s face unbidden, for he could not help but be amused that, in defending himself against the accusation that he harbored a mandrake, Artorias had just admitted to harboring something else.  _ Years of living in the Court have not improved your skill at dissembling. Hopefully it never will.  _ “It is good to know that you would not bring such a foul creature into our Lord’s abode,” Ornstein said. “Though now I must admit to being curious about what it is you actually have hidden away in there.” 

A guilty silence stretched out. As the seconds passed, Ornstein felt his amusement fade out, replaced by a twinge of remorse at having caught his good-hearted friend out in such an underhanded manner. “You need not worry that I will rat you out,” Ornstein assured, “I only want to make certain that you are not about to find yourself in yet another unfortunate situation. You surely have not forgotten that debacle with the mushrooms that had the kitchen staff so upset.”

“Er, right,” Artorias replied sheepishly. “I would not want to become embroiled in another conflict so soon after resolving the previous one.” He sighed, and then opened the door just a crack. The scant light from the hall lamps revealed one gray-blue eye and a face half-covered by several days worth of black beard. “There...may be something in here with me, that I would prefer to keep secret, if possible.” 

Ornstein regarded Artorias through his leonine helm, pretending not to notice that he was fully-clothed, and that his leggings were perfectly fine. The affection he held for his friend went to war with the concern about the huge mess that same friend was probably going to make- a mess Ornstein would no doubt have to lend a hand in cleaning up. “And this ‘something’ that you have...is it going to upset the other residents of the castle?”

“Perhaps some of them,” Artorias admitted, shrugging. “But that would only be a problem if she gets loose, which at this time is unlikely.” 

_ She? _ The only sort of female that Artorias would sneak into his quarters would be an animal; one probably sick or injured. The worry that rose up within him this time was for his friend’s emotional state should the animal end up poorly. “It’s condition must be grim indeed, if potential escape is not a concern.” 

Artorias’ lower lip trembled slightly. “It is not over yet, but…” he trailed off, looking down at the floor.

Ornstein knew that supporting this endeavor in any was folly. And yet, he could not look upon Artorias’ sad, downcast expression and not offer his aid. “Is there anything you require?”

Artorias raised his gaze and shook his head. “I have done all that I can. There is nothing left to do but wait for the outcome.”

Ornstein nodded. “I hope that it will be a good one,” he said, suddenly growing serious. “And that the creature will be returned from whence it came, once a sufficient recovery has been made.” 

“Oh, yes!” Artorias agreed. “That is most certain. The castle is no place for a w-” The rest of the word melted into nothing as Artorias cut himself off. “She shall not stay long past her convalescence.” 

Ornstein chose to take him at his word, despite the suspicions simmering in his head. “I will leave you to it, then,” he said, “and your secret shall remain so, as long as no problems arise.” He reached in through the door and gave Artorias’ shoulder a quick pat. “I am glad that you have made a safe return. Make sure that you visit Sir Gough and Lady Ciaran once you are able.” 

Gratitude radiated from the smile that graced the Wolf Knight’s features. “Thank you,” he said in a way that would soften even his harshest critics towards him. “I shall do my utmost to prevent this from getting out of hand!” 

Ornstein was sure that Artorias would try his best, but not so sure that things would work out the way he intended, since they rarely did. But he said his goodbyes and left, various contingency plans to a number of unfortunate scenarios already forming in his mind as he walked away. 

Relief washed over Artorias as he closed the door. Glad he was to have a friend who trusted him to make the right call, even if recent events had cast the wisdom of that trust into doubt. That relief, however, was short-lived, for when he returned to his sleeping quarters he discovered an unexpected guest near his bed, clad in the distinct armor and mask of the Lord’s Blades.

Any sane person confronted with such a terrifying visage would have run back the way they came, or fallen to their knees, overcome with fear and regret. Perhaps they would have taken up their arms in a last ditch effort to save their skin. Artorias knew that he need not worry for his life, for this particular Lord’s Blade was Lady Ciaran, a close friend. As such, he was used to her appearing unexpectedly before him (although not entirely- having a lady in his room was nerve-wracking even when he had nothing to hide!). 

Still, seeing her now, after just being caught by his other friend only a moment ago, was quite a shock. “Lady Ciaran!” he gasped, heat flooding to his face. “What-how did you get in here?” he asked, for it was the only thing he could think to do.

Lady Ciaran cast a glance towards the window that she had purposely left open, the action serving as her answer. She allowed herself a moment to enjoy the sight of Artorias without his armor. Even in plain linen shirt and leggings, he still managed to cut a very fine figure, and his hair, black, shaggy mess that it was, presented the usual temptation for her to run her fingers through it (though, she would have to climb him to do it- a pleasing notion on its own). “Was that Sir Ornstein just now?” she asked breezily, as though she had not been raking her gaze all over him. 

“Oh, yes,” Artroias replied, faltering a bit from the unexpected question. His eyes traveled from her to the blanket covered lump on the bed. “So...what brings you here?” 

He was trying to put on a casual front. Normally poor acting such as this rose Ciaran’s ire, but Artorias inspired an absurd delight in her when he did it. “I had heard that a dear friend had finally returned from his journey,” she said, picking up a corner of his blanket (much plainer than the plush sheets given to others of his rank-where had he gotten it from?). “He has been here for several hours, and yet he made no effort to seek me out, nor any of his other friends who worry after him when he is away.” She tilted her head to the side. “I would think that a ‘hello’ would have been the least he could, after having no word of his condition or whereabouts for weeks.” 

Artorias had the good grace to look apologetic. “I had not meant to make anyone worry,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. 

Truthfully, most of that had nothing to do with why Ciaran had broken into his room. Curiosity had prompted her to scale the wall and sneak in through the window (she’d waited for at least fifteen minutes on the scant ledge outside before Ornstein had given her the perfect opportunity to come in). There was this irrational urge within her to know everything there was to know about the Wolf Knight, and she was not about to allow him to sneak this thing he had concealed from everyone else past her. 

(And yes, maybe she was glad that he had returned safe and whole from where he had been. And maybe she had missed him a little. And perhaps the fact that he had not thought to greet her stung like the hornet depicted on her ring would on the skin. But those were not things that she could easily admit to herself, let alone to the man before her). 

“You must imagine my surprise,” she continued, rubbing the blanket idly between her fingers as she spoke, “to find that the reason that you have shirked your duty to your friends is because of this sad, sorry creature.” She tossed the blanket aside with one quick flick of her wrist, revealing the tiny wolf-pup curled up in a pathetic ball underneath. 

The pup was a thin, grey little thing, missing patches of fur and limbs tucked up into its body. The empty wash basin and soiled rags piled upon the dresser implied that Artorias had cleaned the worst of the filth off of it, and yet, already there was a build-up of crust upon the eyes and ears, and snot still poured from its nostrils. Its’ breathing was wheezy, with the occasional soft whine escaping from its throat. The one saving grace was that it appeared to be free of injuries, making illness and malnourishment the primary cause of its distressed state. Perhaps its mother had abandoned it before it had been properly weaned. 

Whatever the source of the pup’s ill state, the outlook for its future was not a happy one, even with the efforts its rescuer had gone to. “Let me guess,” she said, grimacing as the pup made a mucusy inhale through its nose. “You discovered this little beastling shaking under some rock, and your soft-heart could not bear to allow nature to take its course.” The disdainful manner in which she spoke about her friend’s gentle nature was at odds with the way she actually felt about it. Artorias’ sympathy towards lesser beings baffled and annoyed her, but she could not fathom him being any other way- or liking him more than as he was. 

From the way he blushed, she figured that she had hit the mark with her guess. “She was under a bush,” he corrected, as though that mattered any, “but yes, you have the right of it.” He sighed, his blue-grey eyes clouded with pity. “I tried to leave her, as you would have advised me to do if you had been there. But as I walked away, I could not get the image of her lying there cold, sick and alone until death found her out of my head.” His voice actually trembled as he spoke- such emotion over a useless animal from one of Lord Gwyn’s Four Knights! The Lord’s Blade pretended that she did not feel any slight movement within her heart as Artorias continued. “So I wrapped her up and brought her here, to see if there was anything I could do to help.” 

“And now you have given this animal a finer end than it would have had back where it lived.” Ciaran had intended the words to be a comfort, but her tone could not convey that effectively, since she did not often provide consolation. And she could not think of a better fate for this pup than to have been so carefully tended to by one as gallant and handsome as Sir Artorias before its death. Artorias appeared to have taken it the wrong way, for his expression became even more stricken. “Do not regard me so!” she said, hating the defensiveness in her voice. “You know that it is the likely fate of this animal!” 

“Yes, I do know that,” he said, crossing the room to stand before her, next to his bed. He was closer than she would normally allow anyone to get to her, but his attention was fixed upon his wolf-pup, not her. “It is unwise to hope that she will see dawn,” he said, reaching down to stroke the pup. The animal would have fit easily into the palm of his large hand, but his fingers upon its fur were light. Even in its miserable condition, it was still able to respond to the touch. “There is always a chance, though, is there not?” He turned to her, smiling in that shy manner of his.

Ciaran looked away before that stupid smile could raise her heart rate.  _ The kindest thing to have done would have been to put this thing out of its misery. As it is, it may linger for hours or days in illness.  _ This thought she did not share, for although she made great sport of teasing Artorias into a flustered mess, actually upsetting him with cruel, if truthful remarks was a step too far. “Let us say that it does somehow manage to find its way to good health,” she said, deciding to amuse herself with a pointless argument. “What happens then? You cannot seriously be planning to keep her as a pet.”

“No, of course not,” Artorias said, shaking his head. “A wolf would be very unhappy living within the confines of the castle. And though she may feel gratitude towards me for saving her, she is still very much a wild animal. A true bond forming between us is not likely to happen.”

He sounded more reasonable than she had expected, but he had not actually answered her question-which she was quick to point out. “You have no idea what you are going to do,” she concluded smugly with a quick jab at his chest with her finger. 

It was so easy- and so fun- to get a rise out of the Wolf Knight. “I have been focusing on keeping her alive!” he argued, face heating up. His indignation was gone as quickly as it had come upon him. “But you are right, as usual. I do not know how I am going to safely return her to her habitat.” His shoulders slumped, posture becoming slouched, as though he were burdened by the weight of his uncertainty. Captain Ornstein would have told him to stand up straight, lest he harm his back. “Maybe Sir Gough will know what to do? He is always a good source of wisdom.” A tiny cough caught his attention. “Of course, his aide may not be required,” he muttered as he bent down to check on the pup. 

The mood would fall into intolerable gloom if the conversation were to continue in this vein. Ciaran would have to bring it back up the only way she knew how. “You claim that you will let this beast go when the time comes,” she said, only allowing a hint of slyness to inflect her tone, “but I do not believe that is so.” 

Artorias straightened and turned to look at her, more confused than offended. “What do you mean?” he asked, still petting the animal as he spoke. “Keeping her is not an option. Once she is well she must go back to where she came from.” 

Ciaran let out a dismissive hum, daring to take a small step forward, shortening the already scant distance between them. She craned her neck upward- she had no choice but to do so, since he was at least twice her height. “You are already quite attached to this creature.” The edge on the right side of his collar had folded inward. Ciaran rose up on her toes to correct it. 

Artorias swiftly denied this. “I hold no illusions over what needs to be done,” he insisted, unaware of her gauntleted fingers as they danced over his collarbone. “And...I am not as attached to her as you may think!” He cast an almost apologetic look down to the pup, as though he worried that it could understand his words enough to be hurt by them.

Ciaran settled herself back down onto her feet. “You refer to this creature as a ‘she’, rather than an ‘it’.” Hm, the hem of his shirt could do with some straightening. “That is not exactly the hallmark of indifference.” Her fingers pinched the fabric and then smoothed it out. “Pray tell, what names have you come up with for the beast?”

The way he shifted his gaze away marked his guilt. “That would be a silly thing to have done,” he said, tugging his shirt free of her.

Ciaran smirked behind her mask. “You already care for this pup as though it were your own, and thus, you will continue to find excuses to keep her with you,” she said before brushing past him. “Eventually, word of its presence will get out, and you will be forced to remove her before you are ready.” She rounded the bed and headed over to the chair before the window opposite the one she had come in (the various potted plants lining the window sill had made it a poor choice for an entry point). “And that confrontation shall be worse than the fuss you put up over those flowers you tried to grow a few months ago.” She flopped down into the wood chair, her back against one arm and her legs hanging over the other. 

Artorias bristled, for the ‘Corpse Flower Incident’, as it came to be known, was still a sore point with him. “The issue with the flowers was not that I had to give them up,” he explained, crossing his arms over his chest, “but that the Steward had them all pulled up and tossed out.” 

The rare show of self-righteous anger had Ciaran grinning. “What did you expect?” she asked, hoping to goad him further. “There are dead bodies that have a sweeter fragrance than those rotten bulbs, and it was rapidly spreading throughout the castle.” The stench had made this hallway and three others nigh unlivable, but lucky for Ciaran her own quarters were in a wing distant from this one. 

Artorias winced. “I admit, I had not expected them to smell as bad as they did, for it was not so terrible in the open field that I encountered them in. But they did not have to destroy the plants when I could have replanted them.” 

“And removed the stench to a different section of the castle,” Ciaran challenged. 

“I would have planted them outside the grounds,” Artorias countered, sitting himself on the edge of his bed. His weight shifted the mattress, causing the pup to roll onto its side. “The humans who live their native habitats claim that they are better for staunching bleeding wounds than red moss.That alone made them worth looking into.” 

The mention of humans had Ciaran frowning. “I shall never understand why you put any stock into anything a human says,” she said, eyeing him as he turned the pup back onto its belly. “They probably made all that up.” 

“Why would they have done that?” Artorias asked, rubbing his finger between the pup’s ears. 

“For their own amusement,” Ciaran answered. 

“Hm.” This was a variation of a discussion that they’d had many times before. Usually he’d argue in humanity’s defense- “they aren’t all bad!- but it seemed like he was too distracted to engage in it tonight. “Her breathing still sounds shallow,” he said, placing his hand before the pup’s snotty snout. It snuffled, then immediately began lapping at his fingers with its pale tongue. “But you will not go with a fight, will you?” he said softly.

Ciaran grimaced. “How can you allow that thing to slobber all over you?” That may have been an exaggeration as the pup’s licks were limited to Artorias’ ring and middle finger, and did not appear to be leaving an abundance of saliva behind. Ciaran, who did not have any particular love for wolves and their ilk even when they weren’t ill, still found the display distasteful. 

Artorias shrugged. “This hand has been fouled by worse substances.” 

There was an innuendo there, if one wished to find it and point it out. Ciaran chose to be merciful and let the comment to pass, instead allowing a companionable silence to fall between them. Unable to watch Artoria coo over a sick animal for longer than a minute at a time, Ciaran let her attention drift around the room. There was already a mess, despite its occupant having only been back for a few hours. In his haste to see the pup, Artoiras had discarded his travel pack onto the floor, and had done the bare minimum in putting his armor away-the cloak he had carried the pup in hung over the bed posts. The implements he’d used to make the pup’s medicine were strewn all over the table near the wall, and the cabinet next to it was slightly ajar. Despite the clutter, there was still a cozy sort of charm to the room. The shelves held more knick-knacks and mementos of his travels than books, and the plants along the window sill gave off a nice, earthy scent in addition to being visually pleasing. 

Minutes passed in this pleasant, wordless quiet. To say that Ciaran was completely relaxed would have been inaccurate-her muscles were always ready to spring into action at the merest hint of conflict- but the peace she felt anytime she was around Artorias settled into her. She sneaked a glance at him from out of the corner of her eye, and was relieved to see no sign of that peculiar gloom he occasionally fell into. He was still visibly worried about that beast, yes, and she doubted that it was possible to banish all traces of sadness from his eyes, but emotions were at least obviously being felt. When the Gloom came upon him it was as though everything within him froze, and there was not much that even Sir Gough could do to bring him out of it. Ciaran certainly never had any luck in thawing him out.

The comfortable silence was broken by the creak of the mattress that followed Artorias rising from his bed. Ciaran watched as he walked over to his desk to fetch something; she could not tell what since his back was to her. Interesting as his backside was, it could not hold her attention forever, and her eyes eventually landed upon the pup. What she saw shocked her greatly. The pup had raised herself up on its front paws, when before it had seemed incapable of moving up off its belly. Ears that had been flat against her head were now pricked forward, and her eyes were partially open, the discharge not having glued them shut as tightly as had been thought.  _ What is this?  _ Ciaran thought as she sat up, rearranging herself so that her feet were planted on the floor.  _ Has this sneaky beast been conducting an elaborate farce?  _ Perhaps not entirely- the skinny body and snooty snout certainly could not be faked- but the little criminal was not as ill as it had led them all to believe!

The pup turned its head, locking eyes with Ciaran for barely a second before flopping back down and letting out a piteous whine. The noise prompted Artorias to hasten back, damp cloth in hand. “It’s alright,” he said softly as he sat back down and gently scooped the animal up. “This shall pass, and all will be well soon.” 

“All is well now!” Ciaran exclaimed, pointing at the pup in his lap accusingly. She was outraged that her dear friend, thick-headed as he could be at times, had been taken in by this deceitful beast. “She has improved enough to sit up on her front paws- I saw her do so myself!” 

“Really?” Artorias looked questioningly down at the pup. “Is that true?” The pup answered by flicking her tongue out and licking her nose.

The Lord’s Blade perhaps should not have felt as much satisfaction as she did at exposing the beastling’s ruse as she did. “It has gone to great length to put on a show of infirmity, but I think that it is in no danger of dying anytime soon.” 

“She does appear to have perked up considerably,” Artorias said, lifting the pup up to his face to better evaluate its condition. “And her eyes are clearer than they were.” He set the pup down, relief and joy evident in the grin that stretched from ear to ear across his face. “Ciaran, this is fantastic! Why, if this keeps up she will be sure to make a full recovery!” 

“Ah…” Well, how had she expected him to react? It was not as though he would have tossed the little liar out of his window. “How very wonderful for the beast,” Ciaran said flatly, glaring at the animal from behind her mask. Did its expression hold a trace of smugness, or were her eyes just playing tricks on her? “I am certain that its survival shall not cause you or anyone else a single problem in the near future.” 

Artorias did not pick up on her sarcasm- he rarely did. “Oh, Sif, it is so fortunate that we have found each other!” he said, scratching the wolf-pup on its chin. “I shudder to think of what fate may have befallen you otherwise.” 

_ So it’s Sif, then.  _ Ciaran sighed. She watched her foolish, frustrating, kind-hearted friend smile down at his new pet and resigned herself to the fact that the two were not likely to be separated anytime soon.  _ A single well-aimed throwing knife would part them permanently.  _ She rejected the idea the second it crossed her mind- the beast might be a scheming opportunist, but it made Artorias happy, and she supposed that she could learn to put up with the wolf for as long as it was here. 

“Would you like to hold her?” Artorias offered, holding the pup out to her. 

Ciaran was quick to decline, much to the beasts's visible relief. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Artorias, Ornstein, and Gough discuss the young Sif's eventual fate. But not all parties are content with what they come up with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who read the first chapter! I'm really happy you are all enjoying this silly story!

The beast lived through the night. This was to be expected, since it had not been as close to death as had been believed. Ciaran would not deny that Artorias’ intervention had saved the beast from lingering for days in starving misery. However, it was clear enough that its afflictions were nothing more severe than some sniffles and mild malnutrition, and that it had rallied much sooner than it had let on. It still feigned bouts of weakness, even after Ciaran had exposed it as a fraud, and each time Artorias would lavish care and attention it did not truly deserve upon it.  _ Unbelievable,  _ Ciaran had thought resentfully to herself in the minutes before she left his room that night.  _ Lord Gwyn’s strongest Knight waits hand and foot upon a snotty little trickster! _

The next week found Artorias isolating himself within his quarters tending to his pup, only emerging when Lord Gwyn required his presence. Ciaran refused to step foot in his quarters, for being in the same space as the runty schemer made her irrationally angry. She settled instead for spying on them from outside of his window, like she would if they were her targets. It was perhaps not the healthiest way to spend her free time. Nothing she saw provided her with any entertainment or enjoyment-watching him coddle the beast actually turned her stomach. She witnessed him meticulously wipe down the beast’s ears, eyes, and nose, watched him as he cleaned up its piss and shit with nary a complaint, saw him cradle the damn thing like a baby and squeeze droplets of milk from a rag into its open mouth. And such care did he take not to give it too much at once, lest it choke! It was like he thought himself the nursemaid to Lord Gwyn’s own child. 

The most infuriating scenes were the ones of leisure. The beast slept frequently-not surprising for a skinny infant-and when it did, Artorias would place it upon his lap, stomach or chest, depending on whether he sat in his chair or reclined in his bed. As his charge napped, Artorias would usually occupy himself with a book, or by puzzling over his correspondence (most of them reports of suspected Abyss outbreaks or other issues retaining to human idiocy, with the occasional love letter slipped in to throw him off). Sometimes he fell asleep too- and didn’t the two of them make a cozy little picture? 

The nausea that these sickeningly sweet scenes inspired was quick to burn up into a fiery jealousy. That the beast should be allowed to lay its head upon the Wolf Knight's lap was a violation of law, order, and nature. There were others, she thought as she grit her teeth and clawed her nails into her palms, who were more worthy. Once, she had envisioned herself in the beast’s place, with her own head resting upon Artorias’ thigh as he stroked her hair with those rough, yet gentle fingers of his…

That was precisely the point in the night when she decided she needed to find something else to do. 

As Ciaran was spying and seething, Ornstein was worrying and wondering why Artorias was keeping himself cooped in his rooms for such an extended period of time. The rare glimpses he’d gotten of the man had shown him to be in a jovial mood, which meant that his animal must have recovered from its ordeal. That he was spending so much time alone was what concerned the Dragonslayer. It was very easy for Artorias to get deeply involved in his projects, to the point where he neglected his social obligations and forwent his meals (though he never allowed any of them to interfere with his duties to the realm). 

Ornstein wanted very much to respect his friend’s privacy, and he’d not yet been given any reason to barge into his room unannounced. He was, however, familiar enough with Artorias’ to know that the more time he spent with the animal, the more attached he would get to it, which would only make it more difficult for him to give it up, and when it inevitably came time for him to do so, the end result would be a sad, sulking Wolf Knight. Artorias’ unhappiness was one quick to spread over to those closest to him, and although there would be no resentment directed at him for separating the man from his not-pet, he still did not want to experience any twinges of unnecessary guilt for doing what needed to be done. 

After a week of waiting, Ornstein decided that the matter required further investigation. He needed to see for himself that Artorias was still committed to eventually releasing the creature back into the wild, and that he was not getting invested to the point of unhealthy obsession. Curiosity tugged at him alongside his concern; he was not immune to the allure that the oddities Artorias tended to pick up on his travels. Provided, of course, that their odor was not offensive (which was not guaranteed with this animal). 

Around midday, during the break he had between the end of running the drills and the meeting with the captain of the New Londo guard, Ornstein set off to Artorias’ quarters. His knock and subsequent call went unanswered, so Ornstein then left in search of Hawkeye Gough. There was no guarantee that Artorias would be with the Giant, but it was likely that he would be able to obtain information regarding the Wolf Knight’s whereabouts, or if not that, the nature of the creature itself. If Artorias was going to confide in anybody about this, it would have been Gough, who, while he did not encourage folly, was a good source of advice, alongside being an excellent listener. It did not bother Ornstein that Artorias preferred to take his secrets to Gough, since he was certain that most of the things he shared with the Giant would have aged him by centuries had he learned of them. 

Ciaran was also one he would have considered consulting, for she was quite knowledgeable on the subject of Artorias’ activities- suspiciously so. But the Hornet was not easily found unless she wanted to be (she never did), and Ornstein did not have the time to search through every nook and cranny of Anor Londo to locate her. 

Sir Hawkeye Gough was a being of considerable size, even when compared to the statuesque inhabitants of Anor Londo. As such, he occupied a tower on the eastern side of the grounds, one that had its very own courtyard and was near the place the blacksmith (another Giant) lived. This placement, selected by Gough himself, had not only been made with his comfort in mind. The top of the tower commanded an excellent view of the lands beyond Anor Londo, as well as the skies above. Any approaching threat, be it land-based or airborne, would be quickly spotted by the sharp-eyed Gough. Many Arch Dragons making their way towards the city during the Dragon War’s peak had been shot down before they could get anywhere near the outer walls. With the number of true Dragons now greatly reduced, targets for Gough’s great arrows were now limited to the occasional drake, wyrm, or wyvern, which were “not as sporting”, according to the Hawk Knight himself. 

Ornstein was pleased to see Gough sitting on a large, well-crafted oak bench when he entered the courtyard. He was even more pleased to discover Artorias there as well, fully armored save for his helm, gauntlets and cape. The cape was there, just not on his person. It was wrapped around something he was presenting to Gough, and it did not take a man of Ornstiein’s intelligence to know that it was probably the animal he’d smuggled into the castle. 

Gough noticed his approach and called out a greeting. “And here comes the Captain to join us,” he said, sounding surprised and pleased to have received an unexpected visit from two of his closest friends. “All that’s needed now is for our Hornet to come buzzing by, and it will be like old times.” 

Guilt nagged at Ornstein’s chest, even though he knew that Gough had not intended for any such reaction with his remark. As Captain of the Silver Knights, Ornstein had more duties to attend to than the other three Knights, and the little free-time he did have was being greedily consumed by...a personal matter. One that would undoubtedly cause him more trouble down the road than anything Artorias could drag into the castle.  _ I should take care to visit him more often,  _ Ornstein thought as he removed his helm (he had little need of it in this informal setting). Outloud, he spoke good-naturedly of the unlikelihood of Ciaran’s arrival in their midst. “She is no doubt abed at this time. The Lord’s Blades have been very active as of late.” He’d seen little of the elusive Hornet in the past week, even on nights when she was supposedly lurking about the castle grounds. Ornstein did not waste his time questioning it- there was a lot that Lord Gwyn’s shadowy spies got up to without his knowledge. 

Gough accepted that truth with a chuckle. “I shall count myself satisfied with the company present,” he said, smiling down at them both. Most Giants, regardless of their social standing, opted to keep their faces covered, more for the comfort of those around them than out of any shame for their appearance. In his courtyard, Gough was free to forgo his helmet. His face was long and harsh, sharp at the chin and cheekbones, looking as though carved from granite, and his pitch-black eyes would have struck Ornstein as unnerving had he not left those prejudices behind years ago. As it was, those features only reflected Gough’s intelligence and reliability. “It is just as well,” he continued, indicating Artorias before him. “Apparently, Ciaran has already acquainted herself with Artorias’ new friend.”   
  


“Is that so?” Ornstein switched his attention from Gough to Artorias. “So I am the last to be introduced,” he said with mock hurt, his eyes falling further down to the blue bundle Artorias held. Its face was turned inward, but he could see a few tufts of grey fur, and the point of one ear.  _ Surely that cannot be what I think it is… _

“It was not done intentionally,” Artorias was quick to say, believing Ornstein’s false hurt to be genuine. “Ciaran sort of...well, took the initiative.” A hint of color heated his cheeks as he shrugged. “You know how she is.” 

“Hm.” Of course she would have found out through her own methods. Her regard for the privacy of others had always been low, even before she became Lord Gwyn’s favorite spy. “Well, I believe I’ve waited long enough,” he said, eyeing Artorias’ bundle with interest. “Let’s see this animal that has captured your heart.” 

“She’s still not fully recovered,” Artorias said as he presented the beast’s furry face to Ornstein, “so please, do not be alarmed if she still appears a bit ill.”

The pup looked quite well to Ornstein, though he could only judge its condition from the appearance of its face. Her fur was clean, if a bit thin at the top of her head, and shaded in hues that ranged from white to grey, with the darkest part being a stripe that ran down her nose. Her amber eyes were bright and alert, and regarding Ornstein with a keenness that should have been beyond the ability of a mere pup. It did not take more than a few seconds of looking at the animal for Ornstein to find the humor in the situation. Here was the valiant Sir Artorias, one of Lord Gwyn’s most trusted Knights, renowned all over the land for his swordsmanship and unbreakable will, carrying around a wolf pup swaddled in his cloak as though it were his own infant. The only response to be had was laughter, and so he laughed, in the way one did when one’s friend has found a way to top every other ridiculous stunt they have ever pulled. “How very appropriate,” he said once his mirth had subsided, “that the Wolf Knight should find himself a cub!” 

Artorias did not immediately reply, perhaps confused as to whether Ornstein’s reaction was an indication of approval or disapproval. Gough spoke instead. “Yes, he did. He claims that she was trembling underneath a bush, alone and sick, when he found her.” He leaned down to playfully shove at Artorias’ shoulder. Most others would have tipped over, but Artorias’ unusually strong footing kept him upright. “He is fond of wolves, yes, but I believe that he would have aided any creature he discovered in need.” 

Ornstein could not disagree. Even loathsome pests had Artorias’ sympathy- he would never forget how upset the man had become after he’d been forced to salt a large slug that had slithered over his shield that could not otherwise be removed. “You speak the truth,” Ornstein said, glancing down again at the pup. The pup stared back, as though she knew that she was the topic under discussion. ‘However, I do not think that a bird or rat would have remained by his side so long after its convalescence.”   
  


Artorias reminded him that the pup was not completely recovered. “Traces of illness still linger, so I must continue to watch over her.” As though that were her cue, the pup began to sneeze, ears falling back against her head and eyes squeezing shut. “Ah, Sif!” Artorias said, rubbing the back of her cloth covered head.“I thought the sneezing fits had passed!”

“You’ve named her,” Ornstein said despairingly, his hopes of resolving this situation in a timely manner evaporating into the air with the pup’s snot and spittle. 

“I must refer to her in some way!” Artorias replied as he gently rocked the pup through her sneezing fit. “I hope that she is not having a relapse!” he said once it was over.”Pups as young as her tend to fare poorly if they fall in and out of sickness.”

“It is probably nothing to worry about,” Gough put in reassuringly. “This is the first time you have brought her outside, is it not?” He waited for Artorias’ nod before continuing. “It may only be the sun having an effect on her. If she came from a forest, she may not be accustomed to having it shining so directly upon her.” 

“Hm.” Artorias mulled the explanation over for a second, then said, “You may be right. In fact, I hope that is the case, for we certainly do not wish to get worse.” He looked down at the pup at the exact same instant the pup looked up at him, a striking synchronicity to the action. “Isn’t that right, Sif?” 

Ornstein was not convinced. As Captain, he was often confronted with ruses of sickness from soldiers who wished to avoid working a patrol that was undesirable in either time or location. Granted, he knew little of wolves aside from how best to defend himself from their attack, but he was reasonably sure that he knew malingering when he saw it! Worse than that, he suspected that Artorias- who was rather well-versed in the subject of animal health- was aware of it too, on some level, and that his concern over the pup’s fragile state was being exaggerated in order to prolong their time together. 

Ornstein inhaled softly through his nose, then exhaled the breath out of his mouth in a sigh. He shot a beseeching look up to Gough, who smiled and shook his head. The Giant would be of no help. “You have become very fond of this little wolf,” Ornstein began, bracing himself for a difficult confrontation. 

“I am!” Artorias said. “She has a very sweet nature, despite her kind’s natural inclination towards ferocity. And there are times when she exhibits a surprising amount of intelligence!” His grey eyes shone with a pride that could almost be called fatherly. “She is fighting very hard against her illness, and with her resolve, she will be sure to make a full recovery.” 

“Upon which, you will take her back to where she belongs,” Ornstein said confidently, like he was finishing Artorias’ thoughts for him. 

The pride in Artorias’ eyes faded out, his mouth working uselessly for a moment. “Ah...yes, of course that is true,” he said reluctantly, clearly unhappy that he had to acknowledge that reality. “But that is a long way off. It does not bear thinking about at this time.” 

Ornstein crossed his arms over his chest and fixed his sternest expression upon Artorias. “And when will it bear thinking about?” he demanded to know. “You cannot keep her here forever, and once she is well, you two will have to part ways.” 

“I know that!” Artorias’ replied hotly, looking at Ornstein as though he’d just insulted him. “I told you that the castle was no place for a wolf, did I not?”

“You did,” Ornstein conceded. “But saying that you will do a thing is very different from actually doing the thing.” He pointed down at the pup- was she glaring at him? No, it was probably just a shadow from a passing cloud overhead giving her that look. “She appears closer to wellness than you are willing to admit. You should form a plan now, rather than leave it to the last minute.” 

“I cannot possibly take her back anytime soon!” Artorias exclaimed. “Her strength still drains so easily and since she is without a pack, she would have no one to protect her, should she be overcome by fatigue in the wild.” The pup began to whine pitifully, as though to emphasize her own sorry state. “It would not be long before she found herself in distress again!” 

“I did not say that you had to take her back right this very second,” Ornstein said, his gut twisting uncomfortably. Damn, did he hate arguing with Artorias like this! Already his friend’s upset countenance and panicked words were causing him to falter. “I only mean that you need to begin thinking about what you are going to do. Her safety is more likely to be ensured if you prepare for the separation now.” 

“It’s more important for me to focus my energy on caring for her,” Artorias stated firmly. 

“Artorias does have a point,” Gough said, cutting into the argument. “That pup is nowhere near ready to back into the forest, regardless of whether or not she is ill. She could be hale and hearty and would still be unlikely to survive for long, due to her being young, inexperienced and alone. All of our dear friend’s efforts would be for naught, if she were to perish from starvation or injury.” 

Ornstein frowned, his brows coming together. He had not considered that point, and neither had Artorias, if the wide-eyed look he was casting upon Gough was any indication. Leave it to Hawkeye Gough to spot the issue that had gone unnoticed by everybody else. “That means that I shall have to look after Sif for much longer than anticipated. At least until she has the strength to fend for herself.” He could not hide how happy the prospect made him-if the undertone of excitement in his tone had not given him away, the ear-to-ear grin on his face would have.

“That, or you can find a kennel master willing to take on the challenge of taming a wolf,” Gough suggested. 

“No.” Resolve hardened the Wolf Knight’s eyes. “The care and education of this most noble creature shall be undertaken by myself.” A breeze blew, ruffling Artorias’ cape and making his declaration appear more dramatic than it actually was. “And I shall be honored to do it.” 

“Alright,” Gough said, resting his long arms along the top of his bench. “May it be an enriching endeavor for you both.” 

“How do you expect to keep a rapidly-growing wolf a secret from the rest of the castle?” Ornstein asked, already envisioning one of the servants fainting at the sight of a large beast roaming the halls. “It is easy to conceal her now because she is small and docile, but she will only grow more larger and more restless as she gets older.” 

To Artorias’ credit, he did not attempt to deny this point, and he appeared to be thinking it over seriously in the small silence that followed the question. The answer he gave, unfortunately, was far from satisfactory. “I shall have to come forward about her existence,” he said, as though it were no big deal. “I should not think that anyone would mind horribly, so long as Sif behaves herself.” 

“You do not think that anyone will mind having a wild animal loose in the castle?” Ornstein asked, unable to believe that Artorias was truly that naive. 

“Yes, I do believe that would be unacceptable to even the most lax of castle staff,” Gough added. 

Artorias’ lips tightened, as though he were trying to prevent an instinctive denial of the facts from bursting forth. “There is no way to predict how others will react,” he said, “so I shall have to hope for the best.” He shifted Sif’s scant weight into one arm as he scratched her between the ears with his free hand. “She has a natural charm to her that will endear her to others. Perhaps it will appeal to Lord Gwyn as well, should this whole affair reach his ears.” 

“Lord Gwyn has no particular fondness for animals,” Ornstein said. 

“He does not have any disdain for them either,” Artorias countered. 

Ornstein only sighed in response. Arguing like this would accomplish nothing. This was a rare opportunity - the three of them spending a beautiful mid-morning together- and Ornstein would prefer not to waste it with such worthless trifles. “It may all work out, as you say,” he said, though he in truth could not fathom it being so easy. 

“I think that it shall,” Gough said, offering his opinion right when the dust had settled between Ornstein and Artorias. “It will not go as smoothly as Artorias wants to believe it will,” he said, nodding at the Wolf Knight, “but there shall be no great catastrophe arising from it either.” He tapped at his chin contemplatively. “If young Sif’s presence offends, then Artorias can take her along on his travels, and ensure that she learns how to care for herself. Afterward, he can release her to a suitable home in the wild.” 

Artorias beamed up at the Giant. “What a fantastic idea!” he said, his excitement audible. “Why, I believe it would be the best possible option for all parties involved. As soon as Sif is strong enough to keep up, we shall go on a journey to find her a nice, safe place in which to live out the rest of her days.” He glanced back down at the pup, satisfaction with his plan radiating off of him. “Perhaps we shall even discover a new pack for you to join! Wouldn’t that be great?” 

Sif cocked her head to the side in response. 

“A fine compromise,” Ornstein said, relieved that they had a viable course of action mapped out. “So long as you do not end up joining the pack yourself.” 

Gough barked out a laugh. “Yes! It would hardly do for Lord Gwyn’s favorite Knight to be seen running about on all fours!” 

“That is not likely to happen,” Artorias said seriously as Ornstein and Gough laughed. “No sensible pack would allow a fully grown adult of another species to intrude upon their group. Although…” he cast his gaze upward, as though recalling something. “I have heard a tale of a pair of human siblings being raised by a she-wolf.”

“I’ve not yet heard that one,” Ornstein said as he made his way over to the bench. With little effort he managed to climb up and join Gough in the space next to him. “Tell us, is this a fanciful tale, or one with some roots in the truth?”   
  


“The humans claim it as fact,” Artorias answered. 

“Then it is sure to be complete fabrication,” Ornstein said. 

“It could be true,” Artroias said, settling himself down on the grass in a cross-legged seat. “The fellow who told it to me appeared very certain of its veracity.” 

“Let us hear it then,” Gough said, leaning in eagerly, “so that we may judge for ourselves.” 

And so, Artorias regaled them both with the story of the two orphan boys who were rescued from certain death by a kind she-wolf, who allowed them to nurse alongside her own litter. The boys eventually grew up and founded a city of their own, the name and location of it long lost to time. At some point, one brother killed the other, which led to the city’s downfall.

“And they say that the surviving brother sired three sons,” Artorias concluded, his tone grave, “and that each of them was covered head to toe in gray fur.” 

“What utter nonsense,” Ornstein said, rolling his eyes.

Artorias shifted, giving the now unswaddled Sif more purchase on his lap. “What part did you think was nonsense?” he inquired. 

“It was rot from start to finish.” 

“I must agree,” Gough said, setting his hands on his knees. “Entertaining and lurid in the way that human tales tend to be, but not at all based in reality.” 

“I do not know about that,” Artorias said. “The part with the city, sure. But is it so hard to believe that a wolf could raise a child?” 

“Yes,” Ornstein said bluntly. “A she-wolf would have been more likely to feed those boys to her young than allow them to feed alongside them.” 

“Hm.” Artorias grunted in the way that he did when he did not agree, but could not find the words to explain why. “Well. It is only a tale that I heard. I did not create it.” He idly stroked Sif along her back, who yawned and leaned into the touch. “If I had, the brothers would not have bothered with the city, instead living their lives out in the forest. And the one brother would not have consumed the other’s liver.”

“That would make for a more palatable story,” Ornstein said, glancing up at the sky, “although not a more believable one.” The position of the sun told him that his time with his friends was up. “An interesting and pleasant diversion this has been,” he said with no small snag of regret, “but obligation calls me back to the castle.” He hopped down from the bench, his boots making a muffled thud on the grass below. 

“Farewell, Sir Ornstein,” Gough said, his voice a warm rumble. He lifted a large hand in a wave. “Always good to have you with us, even for a brief while.” 

“Would that you could stay a little longer,” Artorias said, making no attempt to mask his disappointment. “The day is too beautiful to spend indoors.” He looked imploringly up at Ornstein, not unlike the way his pup might gaze at him when she wanted something. “Is there truly nobody else capable of handling your next task?”

“Now Artorias,” Gough began, mildly chastising, “you know how valued Sir Ornstein’s counsel is in all matters.” He gave Ornstein a look so innocent that it wrapped around to become suspicious. “Why, if we keep him with us much longer the Prince himself shall come out here and collect him.” 

“You exaggerate,” Ornstein said as he slammed his helmet over his head. 

“The Prince does appear to hold you in high regard,” Artorias said, looking behind him as though he expected to see the deity approaching. ”Why, I believe he seeks you out more than any other.” 

Flustered, Ornstein looked away. “That is only because we have known each other for so long.” His eyes fell upon Sif, and he, desperate to turn the subject away from his relationship with the Prince, bid her a farewell that he otherwise would not have bothered with. “Be sure that you keep your master out of trouble,” he said before making a hasty retreat. 

The remaining three watched him depart. “I think Sif quite likes him,” Artorias said happily, “see how intently she looks after him as he goes!” 

“Yes, I see those eyes of hers on his back,” Gough commented as he picked up the wood and carving knife he had set aside. “To me, she appears to be sizing him up.” He let out a hearty chuckle. “Hopefully not for her next meal!” 

“Surely not!” Artorias said, tickling Sif underneath her fuzzy chin. “She is far too young and small to consider something Ornstein’s size as prey!” 

“Of course,” Gough said as he slid his knife easily into the wood. “It was only a jest.” 

Sir Gough’s observation had not been entirely inaccurate. The wheels in Sif’s furry little head had been turning quite rapidly as she watched the Lion Knight exit the courtyard. Although she could not understand every word that had passed between her Rescuer and this very shiny, very spiky man, she was clever enough to glean two things, the first of which being the nature of the relationship between this Golden Fellow and her Rescuer. It appeared that the two were very close. The Golden Fellow said many things that her Rescuer had not liked, and in turn, had received many responses that caused his expression to become pinched with irritation, and his breath to come out in an exasperated huff. And yet, neither party had attempted to bring their teeth to the other’s neck. If that was not a sign of a strong friendship, then what was?

The other thing Sif had been able to figure was that this Golden Fellow held a position of authority within her Rescuer’s pack. In her brief forays outside of her Rescuer’s den, Sif had taken note of the peculiar emphasis the inhabitants of this place put on keeping things shiny. Why, Sif had been able to see her reflection in the hard, smooth ground her Rescuer trod upon as clearly as if she’d been peering into a pool of water. Her Rescuer’s armor had its own silvery gleam to it, but it was dull in comparison to the brilliant sheen of the Golden Fellow. It shone so brightly that it was difficult for Sif to gaze upon it for too long, lest she be blinded by the sun’s glare.  _ He must be the leader,  _ Sif had deduced,  _ for why else would he be granted such ornate coverings? Why else would my Dear Rescuer allow him to nag so? And why else would his second head snarl so ferociously if not to intimidate his enemies?  _

Sif was able to come to an important conclusion using these two observations: this Golden Fellow could send her packing at any time he wished, and the only reason he had not was due to the affection he held for her Rescuer. While she appreciated the Golden Fellow’s restraint, she recognized that her current living situation was tenuous, and that she had best get this leader on her side if she wanted to remain with her Rescuer. 

For there was no way that she would allow herself to go back to that terrible place she had come from, if she could help it. Why should she ever want to? Out there, she’d been alone, starving, cold and sick, certain to die a pathetic, lonesome death. Here, she was warm, fed, and had her every need and whim catered to by her kind-hearted Rescuer, who really knew how to scratch an ear just right. The mere thought of losing these regular meals, of going without dry, soft bedding, of never again hearing her Rescuer’s soothing voice or feeling his fingers upon fur, was so sad that it made her want to whimper aloud.  _ No,  _ the determined pup thought.  _ This is my home, and these fellows, shiny and large as they are, are my pack, for now and forever.  _

But how was she to go about securing her place here, with her gallant Rescuer? She could not communicate with these very tall, very vocal beings, and even if she could, they had no reason to acquiesce to her request to stay. She could not play at sickness forever-already she was growing bored of laying around, napping the day away. How could she, a runt with naught but her wits and natural good looks at her disposal, exert her will over these powerful creatures who, though very kind, were much higher up in the pack hierarchy than she? 

The answer was simple: she would use her extensive charms to endear herself to the other members of her Rescuer’s pack, and thus win a permanent place with them. It would not be a difficult task. Had she not already obtained the love and devotion of her Rescuer without doing much of anything?  _ I need only be small, pretty and pathetic,  _ Sif determined,  _ for those qualities apparently appeal to these odd fellows. How strange that they should care so much for a weak little pup such as I, when no wolf would have ever looked twice at me! Oh well, this quirk can be used to my benefit, and use it I shall!  _

There was no better time to begin implementing her plan than the present. Sif got to her paws and hopped off of her Rescuer’s lap, purposely stumbling a little as she landed. She trotted over towards the bench her Rescuer’s friend sat upon, allowing a small spring into her step.

“Oh Sif!” her Rescuer said, laughing. “Where are you going?” 

_ Not far, do not worry,  _ is what she would have said, if she could speak as her Rescuer did. 

She came to a stop in front of the bench, her tongue lolling out as she craned her neck upward. Fear crept into her as she regarded what had to be the largest being she had ever laid eyes upon. Even seated he dwarfed her Rescuer, who himself was quite tall. If he wanted to, he could scoop her up and swallow her whole. Thankfully, the Great Fellow looked down on her with more curiosity than hunger in that moment.  _ Courage, Sif,  _ she told herself as she dared to approach the Great Fellow’s boot.  _ He is surely not inclined to harm other members of his pack; even temporary ones such as myself.  _

She gave the boot a sniff and all of her previous cowardice instantly left her as a myriad of wonderful scents entered her nostrils. How very compelling it was, this earthy mix of sharp metal and...was that deer hide? Were she not working towards a greater goal she could have spent hours investigating this boot with her nose.  _ For now, I must put olfactory delights aside, and work on befriending this Great Giant.  _ With some reluctance, she took her nose off of the Great Fellow’s boot and then flopped her body down upon it. She then rolled onto her back, exposing her fluffy white stomach.  _ Ouch,  _ she thought as she wiggled from side to side,  _ this boot does not feel nearly as good as it smells!  _

Discomfort aside, her performance appeared to be having an effect. “Aw,” her Rescuer said, the adoration in his voice bolstering her spirits. “She has become fond of you as well!” 

“Ah, so this is fondness?” The Great Fellow laughed, the boom of it reverberating in Sif’s ears. “I had thought that she was attempting to clean my boot, using her body as a wash rag.” The bench creaked, and then a large brown hand was on her, the fingers tickling her belly. She seized up, instinctive fear coming over her again, until the realization that the Great Fellow’s gentle fingers were not about to disembowel her allowed her to relax. 

“Would you like to hold her?” her Rescuer asked.

The Giant shook his head. “Best not. This squirmy little best is likely to fall right out of my hands, and I would not like to see her injured after you put so much work into making her well.” 

If Sif had been capable of sighing with relief, she would have. The Giant was nice and all, but she preferred not being lifted so high above the ground!


End file.
